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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28179807">cabin fever</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/pseuds/justlikeswitchblades'>justlikeswitchblades</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Critical Role (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Father Figures, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mentors, Orphans, Pre-Canon, Sailing, Time Skips, lowkey a winter's crest fic, lowkey wildmother destiny fic, presumably crappy orphans and orphanage administration</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:46:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,032</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28179807</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/pseuds/justlikeswitchblades</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Fjord doesn’t think much of his parents, but he supposes he owes them some thanks for discarding him at an orphanage in Port Damali, an outcast, save for the nearby ocean that matches the color of his skin.</p>
<p>But Fjord isn’t sure if he could call Port Damali home. The place where he is from, sure, but not a place he wants to stay longer than it takes to grab a drink at the nearest dive bar.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fjord &amp; Vandran (Critical Role)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>cabin fever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>so, my yearly listening to jimmy buffett's christmas album has manifested like this</p>
<p>trigger warnings for self-harm (fjord filing his teeth) and vague suicidal ideation/existential dread/escapism (in the way that a kid is upset and says they're gonna run away from home forever, fjord is like, nine or ten in the beginning of this story)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fjord doesn’t think much of his parents. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have them, nor did he grow up with the company of those who did. But he supposes he owes them some thanks, whether they be alive or dead, whether he be a product of a one-time tryst or otherwise, that he was born to be discarded at an orphanage in Port Damali. The orphanage was inland enough that only a sliver of ocean, matching the color of his skin, could be seen on the horizon, the salt air only a whisper on the breeze. But at least he could see it; the odd wandering thought of growing up with only fields of wheat or grasslands surrounding him, even as an adult, is strange enough to make him squirm. </p>
<p>He didn’t realize the water was his savior until some of the older orphans got to the age where it seems all children want is to be, or only know how to be, mean, perhaps expedited by the fact that they had not known much more than cruelty at its worst, or neutrality at its best, from their caretakers. Fjord’s body was particularly orc-ish when he was young, stocky and wide, uniquely colored, and well, toothy. He was teased, called grotesque and monstrous, even more for lumbering around to avoid them, and being too weak to fight back when he tried. He learned he could fix his teeth with a metal file, spending nights wincing in pain but slowly scraping away bone, filling his mouth with dust and grit to spit up after, his lips chafed, even bleeding and scarring once when the file caught the skin above his upper lip. But even that couldn’t save him once the others noticed, and one night, after the usual meager dinner, he started walking towards the glimmer in the distance that seemingly reflected the moon’s light back into the sky above.</p>
<p>He traversed the path he had watched the headmaster’s aides take by cart whenever the orphanage needed a new supply of food or clothing, finally stopping when he couldn’t see the orphanage behind him, his feet aching, but the ocean larger and brighter, closer than he had ever seen it before. He had lain down in the grass off to the side of the path, woke when the sun began to light the sky, and kept walking, his stomach beginning to stab with hunger, though dully, the ocean a blue beacon within sight. The four adults in blue armor eyed him strangely when he passed through their roadside station, though they didn’t question him, even tossing him some copper pieces. His surroundings began to change steadily and suddenly, the path widening, individual houses popping up, then clusters of homes, then even bigger buildings, almost obscuring the sea at times. There were people, their numbers larger than the entirety of the orphanage combined, people who looked more like him at times, and people that looked even more different. There were languages spoken he couldn’t understand, the air smelling strongly of salt and brine. By the time he had let the bustle of the crowd push him through to a beach, the sun was beginning to set again, a small orange half-circle opposite him, turning the sky and sea pink and purple. This time last night, he was thinking about walking into the waters that matched his skin until they swallowed him whole. That night, he sat down on the sand, and let the waves lap at his blistered feet, staring at the setting sun until he dozed off again.</p>
<p>The next day, he had tried walking out into the water, just out of curiosity’s sake--light-headed and under the sun’s glare, he found his vision blacking out for a second--but when he came to, the water had not pulled him under, but kept him afloat instead, staring up at the sky, buoyant and weightless despite the other children telling him the very opposite. A guard of some sort in minimal armor had rushed up to him suddenly in the middle of the water, startling him, causing him to turn on his stomach and inhale water, salt in his lungs, but had kindly steadied him, instructed him to kick his legs, and guided him back to shore. With the few coins Fjord had held on to, he found someone who was selling fish--a woman who directed him to another seller who was selling <i>cooked</i> fish--and ate until his stomach was about to burst. He sat in an alleyway out of the sun, decided to go back to the orphanage, somehow navigating his way out of the crowds back onto the path he had originally walked, and earned a stern lecturing upon his return. He was surprised he wasn’t given a smack, or the belt. But every week or so, he would sneak off down the path again, walking a little faster than the first time, sometimes running, to the noisy city and the ocean. He learned how to swim from some bored but friendly mariners, became more agile in the water and on land, his body becoming a little more lean, more proportional, strong enough that when he finally tried throwing another punch at the orphanage, he knocked a bully onto his ass. They teased him less after that. After becoming familiar with the beggars and the sailors, the fishers and the merchants, and the waters of Port Damali, one day, Fjord never went back.</p>
<p>Despite all the time spent in the orphanage, sleeping on the streets, and on ships disembarking and returning to the harbor, Fjord isn’t sure if he could call Port Damali home. The place where he is from, sure, but not a place he wants to stay. If anything, he has found more of a home on the ocean, now on the <i>Tide’s Breath</i>, jack of many trades and master of few, but a useful deckhand nonetheless. He’s spent time sailing, often within sight of land, but rarely staying for long, usually unloading a shipment, picking up new goods, and departing within a matter of hours. The first time he had been hired as a sailor, his first sojourn into the open ocean without land in sight, the salt felt as if it was sinking into his lungs, building up inside him and crystalizing on the outside and shattering into an organ anew, as if, with enough time spent on the ocean, he would be able to breathe water without needing to surface for air. Now, queueing in a line of ships waiting to enter the bustling harbor, the salt air still swirls in his lungs, but with a sour taste. He’s heard rumors among the crew that they’ll be staying in town for an unknown amount of time, and he isn’t too pleased about the prospect of getting his land legs back for longer than grabbing a drink at the nearest dive bar, especially here.</p>
<p>He’s climbed up from below decks, his forearms propped on the railing, his chin and jaw vaguely stubbled after a few weeks’ journey southwest, maybe halfway to Marquet to rendezvous with another ship, exchanging goods in the middle of the sea, and sailing back to the mainland, the slice of open ocean he’s been gazing at disappearing as they glide into their usual spot at one of the city’s many docks. The neighboring boat on their left, a smaller coffee-colored ship, is missing, leaving a vague, shimmering rectangle of topaz water in its place. The familiar fishing vessel further down, <i>Astor’s Defiance</i>, has thick blue rope netting draped over the name scrolled in its caramel side, crew bustling with cages full of brown and blue clawed creatures. </p>
<p>The call to start unloading their own cargo pulls Fjord’s attention back to the crew of his ship. He heads back below the main deck and starts hauling up some of the larger crates with a little more ease than usual to his own surprise, passing them along the line up the stairs and down the thick gangplank to the docks, where the more burly ones among them start stacking them in a waiting cart. Their boatswain, Ajda, a tanned gnome woman with close-cropped hair, has climbed atop the tallest stack, directing the placement of other crates and chests. Fjord, caught up in his momentum, pays little attention at first to the palm-sized box being handed to him next, expecting minimal weight, but reflexively cursing and dropping the box when it hits his hand, easily weighing 20 pounds, maybe more. He shakes his wrist, eyeing the small dent made in the wood by the box, which looks to be made of some sort of metal, if not a solid brick of it. He exhales an apology and excuses himself from the line, slipping upstairs to perhaps assist tying up the sails, or cleaning the deck, or some activity that he might muck up less. His wrist still pulses, but Belden, the human in charge of rigging the sails, is happy to have him, and pulling up the sails finds itself to be an simpler task, using the whole of his body to help heft the fabric into folds, though he finds himself calling for another crewmate to aid him in securing the proper knots. His bangs have grown long over their recent travels, nearly falling into his eyes, and he tries pushing them back, his forehead developing a sheen of sweat while toiling under the midday sun. </p>
<p>After a good two hours of unloading and cleaning, the first mate calls to distribute the previous month’s pay on the main deck. Fjord starts to join the queue, but he sees that the first mate collects her pay from the hand of Captain Vandrain himself, a chest sat on a stool by his side, his golden blond hair and beard streaked with white and gray, sunburnt and scarred near where his hair has started to recede. Fjord had already started feeling light-headed from the heat, but what remains of his breakfast gurgles in his stomach, and he stumbles to the back of the line, clocking confused glances in his direction, but no one protests about receiving their pay before him. His breath regains its steadiness at the end of the line, a few paces from the woman who’s in front of him, and though he can’t keep himself from standing stock-still, he still shuffles along the line, glancing as some crewmates collect their pay with a simple nod, or a thank you, while others take their time, trading smiles or jokes with Vandran, the sound of his wry cackle reaching across the deck of the ship as he jabs at the arm of a more senior deckhand before sending them on their way. Finally, it’s Fjord’s turn, the ship empty except for the two of them, and Fjord meets his eyes briefly, blue, piercing, lips pressed together as he gives Vandran a small nod in greeting. Vandran draws his hand out of the chest, empty, and takes a step back, folding his arms across his chest, a smile just visible in his neatly groomed beard, though it’s more evaluative, curious. He surveys Fjord in silence, the dark hair that covers his forehead, mostly obscuring the bluer shade of teal of in his skin, save for the coloring that creeps back in on his neck and the backs of his hands, the white tunic bleached by the sun, but more heavily yellowed on his chest and under his arms, his dark trousers bloused into brown leather boots with a slight lift at the heel, scraped and dull with wear.</p>
<p>“You’re a fun one.”</p>
<p>“Am I?” Fjord asks in response, his voice pitching slightly higher, like the wood of the boat creaking, a nervous smile automatically rising. “I don’t know if that’s true.” There’s a flash of yellowed teeth in Vandran’s smile, one gilded, different from the wheat color of his beard.</p>
<p>“Oh, we’re all interesting, even if we don’t want to admit to it. I suppose it’s more of a self-preservation strategy, if someone was born looking like you. I can’t fault you for that.” Fjord swallows and inclines his head in agreement, his tongue touching the rough, blunted edge of a tusk in his mouth out of habit.</p>
<p>“How long have you been with us, Stone? A year, maybe more?”</p>
<p>“Something like that.”</p>
<p>“Right.” Vandran’s smile has faded now. “And yet I keep getting word about you roaming the decks at night. Loading crates all day ought to make a man sleep through a siren’s song. Wouldn’t you agree?"</p>
<p>“I, um--loading crates is good work, and I’m thankful for it, but it’s not always my strong suit. Depends on the day. Or time of day, really.” Fjord starts to stumble, getting the sense he is about to be accused of something. Theft, maybe, something someone has stashed under his bunk to pin on him? He frowns and raises an eyebrow, finding his composure, and trades a barb in kind. "If my captain has noticed that I'm up at night, what does that say about my captain's state of mind?" Vandran takes his jaw in his hand at that, and Fjord gets the sense that he is being appraised in some way.</p>
<p>"It means your captain isn't quick to trust new recruits, and asks sailors he trusts to keep an eye on those who may aspire after the pirate lifestyle, as some sailors always do." Vandran's voice is low, but not without gravitas, rooting Fjord to the spot. "It means, when your captain finally regards you as a trustworthy individual, and he gets word that such an individual is having sleepless nights, he wonders what causes such restlessness. If he is running his ship as well any good captain should, or if his captaining is actually lesser than he perceives. What do you think of <i>that</i>, Stone?”</p>
<p>Fjord's throat feels dry and thick, parched, like the salt has sucked the moisture from his mouth, his eyes wide like that of an unblinking fish, flapping and caught up in a net for someone's next meal. </p>
<p>“No, Vand--Captain. I’m so sorry. It’s not anything of the sort. Wow, I just…” He pushes a hand through his hair, sighing and staring up at the sun until he blinks hard, his vision still dotted with flecks of light. He looks back to Vandran, with confidence this time.</p>
<p>“Sometimes my aching muscles keep me up in the night, but mostly, it’s...” He looks past Vandran, eyes focusing briefly on the sea. “I didn’t have the best roof over my head growing up. When I’m out on a boat, even if land’s still in sight, the waves and stars stretch on further than I could have ever imagined. The ocean has so much possibility. It’s so much freedom, I don’t know what to do with it. Some nights, I just can’t stop thinking about what’s out there.”</p>
<p>“So that’s what it is.” A laugh rumbles in Vandran’s chest. “You’re in love with her. I should’ve known.” He looks over his shoulder out at the turquoise horizon. “As we all are.” He shakes his head, a warm gesture, and dips his hand into the chest beside him, pressing a handful of coins into Fjord’s palm. Fjord respectfully tries to push the hefty sum into the purse on his belt without comment, but he catches glimpse of a coin sparkling like the sunrise, and he can’t help going slack-jawed, opening his palm and counting out ten gold amongst the other silver and copper coins of that month’s pay.</p>
<p>“Captain, I--” He starts to protest, but Vandran is already waving his argument away, shutting the chest and securing it with a lock.</p>
<p>“Trade out west slows around this time due to a holiday on the distant continent, and goods coming in from the Empire nearly halt entirely for a similar reason. There’s always activity around the coast, but…” Vandran shrugs. “Never hurts to slow down once in a while. We’ll pick up again in maybe six, seven days from now.”</p>
<p>“With all due respect,” Fjord tries to not wince at the prospect. “I’m from here, but I’m a sailor for a reason. If it were Port Zoon, or Nicodranas, I might welcome a break, but Port Damali is just…”</p>
<p>“You’ve got ten gold. You seem like you know how to suss out the pickpocket types, so you should be able to keep your hands on it. Maybe...go on up to the Esplanade. A part of the city you’ve never been to before, and book a night’s stay at a tavern fancier than the Marquesian silks we picked up last. You might be spending more money than you’ve ever spent before, but you’ll be comfortable. You might actually feel uncomfortable, but at least it’ll be in luxury.” Vandran pauses. “You might want to stop at a barber first, though, or the Zhelezo might not let you in.” Fjord considers the pitch, scratching at the hairs that are curling at the back of his neck.</p>
<p>“I understand the pull, Stone. If you get restless and find a ship looking for a hand in the next few days, I won’t blame you.”</p>
<p>“Captain, if I may--Fjord is just fine. Stone is a name that...I tried to leave behind in this city.”</p>
<p>“Fjord. Hm. Then you ought to call me Vandran.” Vandran smiles. “Helps keep the ego from getting to my head. Captain is just a glorified title for someone who fills out a lot more papers than you’d expect, after all.”</p>
<p>“That’s good to know,” Fjord jokes back. “I wasn’t an excellent student when I was younger.’</p>
<p>“Neither was I, and yet I found myself here.” Vandran gives Fjord a look, eyes narrowed, and Fjord can’t quite determine the meaning behind it. “The next time I see you here, let’s try to put you in a role that better fits your silver tongue, hm?” Fjord, one foot on the plank that leads down to the docks, feels himself smile in front of Vandran genuinely for once, and not out of nerves.</p>
<p>“Yes sir.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you babynames dot com for crew and boat names</p></blockquote></div></div>
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